


pretty maids all in a row

by mazily



Category: We Have Always Lived in the Castle - Shirley Jackson
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 20:33:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13038888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: You are so happy.





	pretty maids all in a row

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tristesses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/gifts).



You never tell. Slip the knowledge under your tongue; swallow it only late at night, when the eyes stop staring at you, when the cold seeps through your skin and into your bones. Keep it safe where no one will ever look. Not unless they cut you open on the witness stand, try to prove you--

*

_ \--We are so happy. _

Merricat says it--twisting twine so it dances through the air, smile as wide as her face--and because she says it it is true. You are so happy. Outside it is cold. Frost coating the ground so the sunlight bounces off it through the open door, sparkling and winking against the floor you just scrubbed clean. You crack an egg into a bowl. Another and another and you put the shells aside for the garden. Mix until the eggs are pale and frothy, your third best fork solid in your hand, let your arm grow heavy with the motion.

You smile. Toothache near the back of your mouth, a wince, silence; the ache under your skin, where the bone feels like it is growing too long. The open door looms. Your skin itches. You pour the eggs into the pan and watch them dry from the outside in, crumble some of the cheese the new family in the village left as an offering two nights ago when the time is precisely right. 

"Omelets," you say. "We don't have any bread for toast."

Merricat twirls and her tablecloth dress swirls after her like water going down a drain. "I will run and fetch bread from the moon," she says, "Crunchy and brown and full of moon dust." She stops spinning. Her tablecloth continues. She looks outside, out past the garden and Uncle Julian's roses and past the woods and past everything: you watch her looking, wondering, and a chill goes up your spine.

*

You didn't kill them. You say it until your throat is raw, until the words slice and cut and scrape your insides hollow. They will never believe you. Only Merricat believes you, but you are not allowed to see her (like you're allowed to see everyone else, dressed in their finery and boxed in wood and lowered into the ground), to tell her you love her (you are too dangerous) and you understand (only you don't, not fully, but only around the edges). You shiver. The sky is bluer than even your mother's bluest dress. Than any blue you can imagine; the sky stretches long and blue and you struggle to find the edge of it. Where is the--

*

Merricat says you are beautiful; you are beautiful. 

You eat your eggs facing across from each other at the only table you have left: she takes the first bite, swallows, smiles as if to say  _ this is good this is food we are happy and full _ , and drops some on the floor for Jonas. Cats need protein. Eggs are protein. Jonas has already eaten, but Merricat doesn't listen when you tell her that. Outside a car motor growls like a tiger ready to pounce. 

"Too close," you say. Tense. Jonas stretches, shows off his claws. 

Merricat nods. Her hands fists and her eyes angry; she flies to the door, closes it tight, and you try to blink your way out of the sudden darkness. All of the windows are covered, and you stand. Three steps, left, two more, and you strike a match to light a candle.

You wish they--the children you will never have, the lovers you will never keep, the town that will never forget--could see how sharp, how dangerous, their world is. How happy you all are here where the walls can hold you in and keep you safe.

"I worry about the garden," you say. Winter is snapping its jaws around the softest parts of spring's throat. Just a few days ago you saw the first cautious tendrils of green peeking through the ground, and today the ground is coated in silver-white frost. Merricat steps closer, pressed behind you as you watch the candle flame change color.

"On the moon," Merricat says, "Our vegetables will grow all year long and the snow will make them taller than anyone." Her breath against your ear, body warm and arms wrapped around you like a heavy quilt.

*

Everything outside is too big (you're not guilty, but only in the eyes of the law). You sit on the floor, back pressed against the wall, fingers tiptoeing along the crack at the bottom of the door. Merricat smiles to see you. Smiles and dances, tells Jonas that you will live happily ever after now that you are back together ("Your mother," she says, and you can't hear her over your memories). You peek out the window, and the sunlight cracks against your skin like a whip. Your heart pounds. Your body curls in on itself, and you try to drive the sunlight back outside but shards of it keep stabbing at your heart. You can't breathe. "Constance," Merricat says, "Come to the creek and see--"

*

Merricat buries things to keep them safe. Hangs things and buries things, and you wrap your hand around her wrist to keep her close. The car doesn't stop. No one comes to the front door; it is not dark outside yet, and the village children must be in school. Merricat's arms are the safest place you can remember, tight and refusing to let go.

"Run away with me to the moon," Merricat says. She kisses your cheek, and her breath smells like egg and onion. 

Your nose wrinkles. "Not until you brush your teeth," you say. You blow out the candle. Turn in her arms, press an answering kiss to her cheek and then push her away. She stumbles back, death flashing bright in her eyes, and then turns for the door. Opens it and steps outside. 

You used to think about leaving: another secret you swallow down, bitter and sticking at the back of your throat, as Merricat runs out into the yard. Her voice a quiet sing-song you can't understand from the kitchen, volume rising and falling as her legs stride too far too fast. Jonas dances around her feet and pounces at the light between the shadows. You used to be able to imagine the edge of the property. The edge of the village, the world. 

Merricat isn't wearing any shoes. The omelet pan needs cleaning.

You don't watch as Merricat disappears. You turn away, you scrape dried egg into Jonas's bowl, you place the pan gently in the sink. Run the water until it steams. Plunge your hands under the tap until your skin turns red, try not to listen for the sound of Merricat's footsteps. 

The bedlinens need washing. The last of the remaining silver needs polishing. You haven't even washed the breakfast plates yet. You begin to scrub the pan, steady repetitive motion until it's clean.

*

You wait in the garden. Merricat is in the village, buying eggs, milk, bread, liver, steak, chicken, flour,  _ I won't forget, Constance, they're under my eyelids _ . Your eyes hurt in the sun (too much, too bright, and you can't blink it away). Merricat is too far away. You turn at every noise, every twig cracking and wind creaking, and you shelter in the shadow of your house. Secure that it will keep you safe from the earth reaching out to forever on every side of you. 

You listen for Merricat's footsteps, the sound of her feet slapping against the ground always three steps ahead of her. Press your fingers into the earth. Watch for your roots to grow.


End file.
